The museums in New York make me think of time and intention. After how long do museums become museums of the people who created them instead of what's inside? If they did not update science museums with new information every few months, they would still tell us Tyrannosaurus has scales instead of feathers, and that Brontosaurus was a lurching, water-wading beast. Taxidermied (do people even still do this?) animals in the American Forests exhibit are poised in action above wood brass placards that read, "White Deer, donated by Beverle R. Robinson." There is a dark spot on the plaque where the Y has fallen off of the name, Beverley. Of course Beverly has likely been dead a hundred years, so I suppose they don't need to worry to much about hurrying to replace it.
Friday night Derek rocked the Goba salon. The poets there make me feel like shit the same way that poets at the Cantab used to. I read a sestina and Tom said I should stick to form poems. Maybe he's right.
Last night we went to Cuchi Cuchi for Jamie's birthday. I got to wear a pretty dress and eat amazing tiny plates of challenging foods. Artie, Simone, Tara, Jamie, Derek, Trish, Chris, such a fun group of people to go out to eat with. Afterward we met up at Zuzu with everyone. Some suburban dude tried to pick a fight with us for cutting in line because we're all in third grade and we want to make sure we get to the pudding cups before they run out of the chocolate ones.
Lower key weekend. I was tired and haven't really written in weeks, so I didn't feel like I deserved to go out all night. I felt boring and was tired of the conversations I would have. Came back to Derek's bed after writing a few limericks and passed out. He woke me up at five in the morning carrying a purloined pineapple and tickled my feet with it. Everything's okay.